Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 14

The living room smells like old fabric and lemon-scented floor cleaner. I’ve fluffed the pillows three times already, folded the spare blanket over the arm of the couch like it’s an exhibit, not a home. I even lit one of Mom’s old vanilla candles, a cheap kind that burns too fast and smells like melted frosting, but still, it’s something.

In the kitchen, I can hear the clatter of cupboards and a bottle cap flying across the counter.

“I’ll make snacks,” Dad had said ten minutes ago, rolling up the sleeves of a shirt that didn’t match his pants. His idea of baking is fishing out whatever survived the pantry: some dusty butter cookies in a tin, a half-eaten pack of Chips Delight, and a liter of Royal Tru Orange that’s been sitting in the fridge door since before I started dreaming of floating.

Still, I won’t say anything. Because he’s trying. Because he’s not on the porch tonight, staring into the nothingness like it owes him an answer. He’s not crying in his room with the door cracked open, radio playing some 80s love song like a teenage girl going through her first breakup.

No, tonight, my dad is standing, moving, breathing. He’s trying to be the man he once was, or at least the version of him I remember when Mom was alive. The one who danced with her in the kitchen to cheesy Tagalog love songs. The one who knew how to be soft without breaking.

And maybe this, the stone hard cookies, the neon-orange soda, the effort, is his way of telling me: I’m still here.

I hear the doorbell ring.

And just like that, the quiet is over.
The door creaked a little when I opened it, everything in this house had a slight echo these days.

And there he was.

Matt, in a blue t-shirt that clashed hard with his bright red pajama pants. Perched on his nose was a pair of reading glasses, and across his forehead… a yellow bandana, tied like he was about to spar with someone in the garage.

I stared for a beat too long.

“Welcome, Philippine flag,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You just missing the sun and three stars.”

Matt smirked, his glasses slipping down a little. “Patriotic and proud,” he said with mock seriousness.

“What’s with the bandana, Bruce Lee?”

“In case James needs a flying kick later,” he said smoothly, as if he’d rehearsed it.

That made me laugh, a real one, loud enough that Dad peeked from the kitchen.

“He’s early,” Dad noted, wiping his hands on a towel.

Matt stepped inside, suddenly formal again as he gave a small bow. “Hey Sir Mikhail, Good evening.”

I led him to the living room where he settled on the floor beside the coffee table like we were back in kindergarten. He pulled out his pencil case, some flashcards, and a battered copy of Advanced Algebra that had more post-it flags than pages.

I watched him get organized in full pajama glory and thought, this boy, who usually looks like he stepped out of an honor roll poster, actually has mismatched outfit tonight.

He looked up and caught me staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, grinning. “I’m just surprised you bleed red, white, blue, and yellow.”

“Bet you James won’t even bring a pen,” he muttered, shuffling his notes.

I didn’t say anything, but I was still smiling.

We’d just started flipping through my notes when Matt leaned over and whispered, “Do you always use this much highlighter? I feel like your Biology notes are trying to warn ships away from rocky shores.”